He cleared his ears again. How deep was he? he wondered. He figured they would need to take him to at least one-twenty. He pictured the nitrogen balloons shrinking as the molecules were compacted. Would they fight their repatriation, or would they eagerly return to his blood? Despite the conditions of behavior—conditions negotiated as thoroughly as those drafted during the Hague Convention of 1899—there was a chance that one or more of them would rebel. They might hide out inside of him, fighting on, like those mad-eyed soldiers still occasionally found in remote mountains who refused to believe that whatever war in which they were participants had ended decades ago.

Stop thinking about it, he told himself. There’s nothing you can do about it. This was, unfortunately, true, although hardly comforting. The only thing he could do was wait. And he would have a long time to do that. What had Adam said—nine hours? The last time he’d seen a clock, it had been after four. That meant he would be getting out of his cozy little suite sometime after one in the morning. Perhaps he would be able to sleep; that would make it more bearable.

The ache in his bones had decreased noticeably. This was a good sign. And he no longer felt itchy. He wondered how he looked, if his skin was still flushed the color of a cooked shrimp. He might be able to see himself in the polished metal of the chamber’s numerous instruments, but decided against it. The image would only be distorted, like those in a fun house mirror or the reflection in a fish’s eye.

“How are you doing, Ben?” Adam’s voice crackled through the small speaker set in the wall.

Ben gave him the diver’s OK sign, and he heard Adam laugh. He owed his continued well-being, if not his life, to the two men in the other room. He’d known both for several years, although he’d not had need of their services until now. It was funny, he considered, how one’s perceptions of a person could change as soon as his expertise was required. He’d known Adam Jay and Leo Preziosi as just men; reliable dive buddies; and, on occasion, agreeable drinking companions. Both had attended poker nights at Al Blackmore’s house, contributing money and bawdy jokes, and if anyone had asked Ben about them, he would have said they were good guys.

They were much more than that now. Now they were alchemists, working magic with oxygen and pressure, casting spells based on knowledge few possessed. He was relying on them to take him down and bring him back again, resurrected, from the bottom of the ocean. As soon as he’d made the decision to begin that ascent with Caddie, he’d put himself in their hands.